


Of Show-offs and Romantic Idiots

by Strange_johnlock



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Established Relationship, Established Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Fluff, Fluff and Humor, Humor, I know that's disappointing, Idiots in Love, Kissing, M/M, Morning Cuddles, Morning Kisses, Non-Sexual Intimacy, Post-Season/Series 04, Romance, Sherlock Being a Drama Queen, Sherlock is a Good Boyfriend, but no sex, maybe next time, naked wrestling in bed
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-30
Updated: 2020-10-30
Packaged: 2021-03-08 20:42:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,527
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27212881
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Strange_johnlock/pseuds/Strange_johnlock
Summary: Sherlock still has to learn that there are things inappropriate for the bedroom. John finds him endearing.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 30
Kudos: 110





	Of Show-offs and Romantic Idiots

**Author's Note:**

> This somehow got lost on my pc. It was written in October and I totally forgot about it.  
> Thank you, Amelia and Iris, for beta reading. You are both wonderful.

“What are you doing?” My voice sounds muffled and a little hoarse even to my ears as I whisper those words against my love’s collar bone. I haven’t even opened my eyes yet, but can I feel the morning light kiss my face and the movement of Sherlock’s body beneath mine. 

Sherlock mutters something under his breath. Warm lips press against my temple, a well-placed distraction, and I open one eye to look at him. He still has his arm raised over, and I see myself reflected in his phone as he clicks pictures. Hiding my face against his shoulder, I blindly reach for his wrist to pull it down.

“Stop that,” I grin, and this turns into an impromptu wrestling match for the phone. Sherlock’s giggles are a thing of wonder, deep and honest. They make my skin tingle and my heart swell. This brilliant man is finally in my bed, after too many years of unfulfilled pining. I still can’t believe I was brave enough to do this, to tell him at last. I’ve never been bold when it came to love. I settled for women just because it was easier. I waited for them to break up with me even when I was unhappy and dissatisfied in the relationship. And I resorted to texting with strangers instead of telling my wife it wasn’t working anymore. 

Sherlock always brings the best out of me. The man I want to be is who I am now: boyfriend to one Sherlock Holmes, father to the most wonderful daughter. Some days, I am still a grumpy old man with anger issues, but I am happy. As I think about that, he regains control, looming me, hands gripping my wrists over my head as I hold the phone in my right.

He is beautiful, his face all scrunched up, as he laughs, all wrinkles and double chins. Dark, tousled curls that belong to the loveliest bed head bounce and roll about, and I crane my neck up to kiss him deeply. The phone is forgotten as lips meet; this kiss is as imperfect as our first. We both have morning breath, and the stubble on my face can’t be too comfortable for Sherlock. It doesn’t matter. We are stupidly in love. 

Fingers intertwine, and I pull away just in time to stop Sherlock from snatching the phone from me. I flip us over. 

“Still a soldier,” I grin down at him. I smear kisses against pale, freckled skin, deciding I will only do something about our little problems once I find out more about this selfie and this photo thing.

“And now, Mr Holmes, I want answers. What were you doing?” 

“Taking a picture, obviously,” Sherlock looks way too innocent for me to believe that’s the end of the story. 

“You were taking pictures of me while I was asleep. Why?” I kiss the tip of his nose. 

“Don’t be an idiot, John. I was taking a picture of both of us. It is called, as I found out, a selfie. Ridiculous name, that.” There is a tiny bit of red tinting his cheeks, and I kiss that spot, skin warm against my mouth. He wants to distract me with random facts because he is uncomfortable with talking about his real reasons. 

“And why were you doing that, my love? While I was asleep?” The pet name slips from my lips before I can stop it, but the twinkle in those intelligent eyes is enough to tell me he likes it. He would probably rather hug Anderson than admit that, though.

Sherlock clears his throat, then looks straight into my eyes, his face all open and I adore him for it. “Because you were looking rather attractive and I wanted to, as they say, capture the moment.” 

“Very romantic,” I grin, and he huffs in annoyance that is far from genuine. I take a look at his phone to find he has one more app opened next to the gallery. “Instagram?” I raise an eyebrow, and the endearing blush is back. It's adorable, really. No one seeing him like this would believe that the man underneath me is the same man pretending to be a cold, emotionless sociopath, an act I saw through years ago, never really believed. 

Pale eyes look up at me innocently. We both know this is not an interrogation; it's flirting. I am finally allowed to flirt with Sherlock Holmes, and it’s the most wonderful thing in the world. I trail soft kisses against his hairline, slowly, from one ear to the other.

“I did research last night. About romantic relationships. I concluded that is what we are in: a romantic relationship. You called me yours, after all,” He’s rambling again, and I smile into his hair. “As you know, as my brother has told you, I am not very knowledgeable when it comes to things like that. My research concluded, next to details I will spare you with, that couples tend to share their happiness with others, especially on social media, to show off. And to be romantic, of course. You like romance.”

Sherlock utters the last words with a sort of disgust, that I don’t believe he feels.

“And so, you thought you’d post a picture of us on your Instagram, that has about a hundred thousand followers.” I trace his jaw with one finger and, tipping his chin up.

I think about Sherlock’s Instagram profile, filled with as many oddities as our flat, followed by several people who enjoy the blog about the famous detective who survived jumping off Bart’s roof. It doesn’t seem like the place for my sleeping face, scrunched up against his collar bone.

“Not good?” He asks, and I have to kiss him. 

“I am aware you haven’t been in a relationship with a man,” he begins to ramble again, “I assumed you wouldn’t mind, but you always did insist on not being gay and me not being your date. I have, against all evidence, presumed you are over that sexual identity crisis. Especially after last night and our very gay activities.”

His beautiful face turns from an expression of self-doubt to anger, which is more him trying to hide his embarrassment than real anger directed at me. I feel guilty for a moment about what I said, but correcting this wrong is more important than dwelling in the past right now.

“Look at me,” I whisper. “Deduce it.” 

I try to keep my expression as open as I can. He’s better at reading what I want to say on my face and in the way I cock my head than me trying to fumble around with words that aren’t enough. 

Pale eyes squint as he looks at me, and then the spark of a deduction being made lights them. 

“You are not ashamed. You don’t mind us being out there, people knowing you are bisexual. Not anymore. You have dealt with this in therapy, next to doing anger management. You just think this,” he lifts his chin to point it at the phone in my hand, “this is too intimate. You think this should be for our eyes alone, which, again, proves you are a romantic at heart.”

I lean down for a kiss to his soft, smiling lips. “You hit the bull's eye there, love. But there’s another reason.” I let go of his hands, and immediately, long arms wrap around my torso, as if starved of touch. “The last time we...  _ you _ were in the public eye, things… didn’t go well. I’d rather not drag our private life out there, for your sake, for Rosie’s. If we post anything about our relationship, the tabloids will talk of nothing else for days.”

The thought hadn’t occurred to me before, but as I talk I realise this is me asking Sherlock to keep our relationship a secret. He must hate it, feel hurt.

The detective turns, and I adjust, until we are both on our sides, facing each other. “It seems I am ignorant in more areas than I was aware of.” Sherlock moves so he is pressed against me, words spoken against my neck. 

“I try to delete that people see more in me than the consulting detective I am. People like heroes, but they love to see them fall. They would try to use this against us.”

“Drama Queen,” I smile into his hair. “But yes, that is what I wanted to tell you, in my own simple, idiot words.” His giggle sends warm waves of love over every inch of my skin. 

* * *

A few days later I find the picture framed on Sherlock’s bedside table. I have to admit I like the way I look on it. I don’t remember ever feeling this peaceful, sated, happy. Sherlock is all bedhead curls and cheeky smiles as he angles the phone to capture the moment. 

* * *

Four years later, Sherlock does post a picture on his Instagram. Just our hands, and the wedding bands. We ignore all speculations being made, and by the time we return from our honeymoon, there are more important things to write about.

  
  



End file.
